A kitchen by any other name...

It was a rainy, cold and dismal morning. I woke up feeling just like the weather, chilled and cross. Never being a huge fan of breakfast, I rarely, if ever shuffle into the kitchen and think: just the day for a french omelet and blueberry scones. My idea of breakfast, (if I decide to eat it at all) is more like a cold slice of last nights pizza and a coke with lots of ice. I must confess that not only am I not a huge lover of the first meal of the day, but my mastery of the art of cooking is .... well, lets just say I'm pretty much talent free when it comes to "cheffing it up". You could cart my stove out the back door, and I wouldn't bat an eyelash, but if you took the microwave you would definitely have a fight on your hands. My only epicurean proficiency is pushing the little button that says cook, or sometimes defrost if I don't have on my glasses. I lean against the counter with no anticipation, waiting for all the atoms and molecules to clang around inside the little metal box, and serve me up a steaming helping of vulcanized rubber. Surprisingly, I never have the patience to wait for the little electronic bell to ding, even though I know full well what the outcome will be. A molten nuclear concoction somewhere between a Stouffers hot pocket and roofing tar. Oh well, a pair of Teflon gloves, a bottle of ketchup, and voila: breakfast is served. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stand in front of this foreign creature with the name KitchenAid tucked into the right corner of his door. A thin silver plate, declaring who he is, much like the sticky backed (My Name Is:) tags that are handed out at public events. A paper badge screaming out your identity, making you feel individual and exposed, all at the same time. This rectangular patch plastered haphazardly on a shirtfront, deceptively conveying a sense of familiarity to complete strangers. True to life, I would have no inkling at all as to who KitchenAid is. My only clue being the tattooed moniker on his chest. I stare defiantly at this stranger with a haughty fear masked as indifference. My squinted gaze looks him over like a gun slinging rival at the O K corral. I saunter around him, nervous and distrusting. Sizing him up from hood to broiler, while pacing back and forth in my best Clint Eastwood imitation, complete with an itchy trigger finger. He stands there like a stainless steel sentinel, cool, stoic and untouched, an enameled frontier squatter daring the true landowner to challenge him. My eyes eventually rest on the digital clock smack dab in the middle of his control panel. An illuminated warning sign, flashing tin star bright, proclaiming who the real sheriff is in this kitchen. Three years after staking his claim on my property, and still blinking neon, menacing green at 12:00. (I never dared to get close enough to adjust the time) Wondering if he is trying to tell me whether it is midnight or high noon (either equally appropriate for a gun fight), I prepare for a showdown. I take one last look at the name riveted across his shiny, metal breast, resisting the urge to say: "go ahead punk, make my day". I brazenly draw my weapon of choice, a cookbook. With false bravado and cowboy stubbornness fueling my impetus, (Ive always hated to be told no, or that I can't) I muscle my way through this attempt at cookery like Custer at Little Bighorn, not yet knowing if this too will be my first and "last stand". I stiffened my spine, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work. I followed each recipe to the pinch, dash and teaspoon. I mixed, whipped, folded and buttered with a determination of a maverick wrangler, rustling up grub like my life depended on it. I flipped pancakes and eggs with an unwavering hand, while the bacon spit and sizzled in a pan nearby. When I finished, I surveyed my fantastic, misshapen, lumpy hot cakes, heavenly, gelatinous, undercooked omelet and glorious, charcoal pork strips with a self satisfying triumph. I felt like I had just won the blue ribbon at the Pillsbury Bake Off. I took no notice of the kitchen that looked like a war torn battlefield. Blackened pots, random kitchen gadgets, broken eggs, and overturned salt boxes; counters and floor strewn with the casualties of war. I finally conquered my "Alamo", and had no time to cry over spilt milk. I was way too busy busting my buttons with western pride. Wiping my flour sweaty brow with a scorched potholder, I sat down to my homespun feast. Trying extremely hard not to boast or brag, I pointed out all the morning culinary delights to the only other person at the table. Standing there, her arms folded, apron smooth, neat and tidy, with just a hint of a smile forming around her mouth: Mrs. Butterworth was quiet and still, but somehow I knew that she was proud too.




Kitchens. No longer just the utilitarian, dismal cramped quarters of yesteryear. Kitchens now, are not only practical and functional, but they have become the star of many homes. Whether your taste runs sleek and futuristic, or more toward the rustic and quaint, the sky is the limit. If you have the budget, a smart kitchen is a cutting edge option. Microwaves read bar codes from packages to cook your pre packaged food perfectly. Convection heating can cut your cooking time in half. You can wake up to your morning java already brewed with programmable coffee makers. Icebox counter tops can keep your perishable food items cool without the need of a refrigerator. You can activate your appliances with ease, all from the touch of a computer screen, or a cell phone. If your pocketbook isn't quite big enough to afford these space age conveniences, even today's standard appliances pack a technology wallop your grandmother never dreamed of. Besides the finger touch readiness we enjoy in this new millennium, kitchens have become so much more than a mundane place to bake a tuna noodle casserole. They have evolved into family hubs that encourage so much more than food. Functionality has definitely evolved, but the wow factor of modern kitchens has been ramped up to a level that is equal to the beauty of the rest of the home. Just a place to store can goods, and house the oven has forever been replaced with gloriously efficient and attractive spaces. Kitchens are now multi functioning, livable, work and play areas that can be as unique and individual as you are. This room is now allowed to be beautiful and comfortable, without losing any of its function. Today's kitchens run the gamut from A to Z when it comes to design. Whether you prefer the slick, cool vibe of a minimalist environment, or the warm, comforting feeling of a bygone era; you're options are virtually endless. Luxurious, Eco friendly, Budget conscious or Campfire, there is something for everyone. More than ever before, the kitchen is truly the heart of the home. So, if your cucina, cantina or cafe is leaving you hungry for something more, take the fatted calf by the horns and make your kitchen all that you want it to be.
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You Say You Want A Revolution... A New British Invasion

My appointment was for 11am. I arrived 10 minutes early for my semi annual check up for this pesky thyroid problem that has recently become a part of my life. You get older, and your body starts to betray you. Bette Davis said: "old age ain't for Sissy's". That's comforting, considering I need a weeks bed rest when I get a hangnail. I figure by the time I'm 50, I will need an around the clock nurse, a closet full of incontinence pants, a bib, and a days of the week pill holder. Even though my body is proof positive that I'm no longer a spring chicken, it never ceases to catch me by surprise when I think about it. In my head, I'm still a kid. A health problem? Ridiculous, I'm much too young to have health issues, never quite realizing that in 20 odd years, I'll be eligible for social security (if there still is such a thing). I stand in line to sign in at the little hole in the wall with the sliding glass window. An older man with a bad rug, and a manilla folder is in front of me, speaking quietly, but forcefully to the lady in the glass front box. I stand there staring at the back of "manilla folders" head; hair jet black on top, and dull listless gray around the ears down to the nape of his neck. I promptly decide that he must be discussing his cataract medication, because it is obvious the man is completely blind. After making my conclusion as to why "toupee" is in front of me, I began pondering why the receptionist needed to be enclosed and separated from the rest of the outer office. Maybe it was just a kindness to all the frail, ill people in the lobby, shielding them from overhearing the doctors and nurses hushed talk of swine flu, ringworm, and angina. Ugly little words, not so much for their sound, but more for the small fortune that is shelled out in prescriptions, return visits and specialists that your HMO doesn't cover. Maybe it was to keep her constantly ringing 4 line phone from disturbing the delicate constitutions of her sickly charges. Or maybe her little cubicle was hermetically sealed from the coughing, sniffling, pox laden mob, just so she herself wouldn't catch some dreaded debilitating disease. I mean, after all, she is the epicenter of this practice, what would they do without her? The other receptionist is out on maternity leave, and even though she has varicose veins and a demanding 2nd husband (her kids despise him) who expects dinner promptly at 6pm every night, she dutifully gives her all, 5 days a week, from 8:45 am sharp until 5:01 pm sharp, minus her half hour for lunch, and 7 cigarette breaks. Her name is Brenda and...uuuuuuurch, like a needle being dragged backwards across the smooth grooves of a long playing record, I am ripped from my wondering thoughts and jerked back into reality when "wigs r us" abruptly turns around, putting my nose in spitting distance to an impressive matt of white chest hair showcasing at least 6 gold chains. Yikes! This guy burned my retinas like the blazing intensity of a thousand suns, and I realize painfully, that is probably gonna be me in fewer years than I want to be reminded of. Me, Peter Pan, standing at a doctors office window arguing with some random "Brenda" about my ailing liver. Holding on to my vanity like an over the hill peacock, with my gaudy pinkie ring and synthetic hair; silently and painfully relieving my bladder into my extra absorbent adult underpants.

I sit down in the waiting room in the only available empty seat, sandwiched between a young Hispanic woman with a cute, but completely out of control child on one side. He screams loudly and constantly for no apparent reason, while steadily kicking his Mother on the leg with his miniture Nike clad foot. Every methodically timed thump on the back of her calf has a soothing cadence (not for him, but for me) I imagine making that same satisfying sound upside his screaming head. The mother ignores him, and talks on her cell phone. On the other side of me is a man the color of a rainy day, holding a plump plastic medical bag in his lap. A small tube is a attached to the bag, it curls and winds across his legs, slithers under his jacket to some unknown place, providing him with liquid medication. He is breathing heavily, with small staccato breaths. I feel sorry for him, and I'm thankful it isn't me at the same time. I don't dare look him in the eye, I don't want to embarrass him by letting him see the pity that is evident on my face. I sit there on the hard office chair staring straight ahead, trying not to think of how uncomfortable I am. The lack of cushioning on the chair, the tantrum throwing brat beside me, the poor wheezing man to my right, all conspriring to make me turn to "flight or fight" mode. I'm sitting there thinking Id rather be taking out my own spleen with a rusty cocktail fork than be in this godforsaken place. Someone (presumably receptionist Brenda) switches on the radio and the elevator version of: The Long and winding road by the Beatles plays statically in the background. The long and winding road, thaa aat leads to your door.....la la la la la.....it always leads me here, leads me to yoooo ooour door........ la la la. I think of my 7th grade teacher Miss. Freeman. Miss. Freeman, I haven't thought of her in years. I liked her, she was young, maybe 25, she was pretty, and she was solely and completely in love with the Beatles. John and Ringo, Paul and George were incorporated into civic lessons, and Beatles lyrics became the part of debates. She tacked Beatles posters onto the class bulletin boards, and on very special occasions she would bring in her own personal portable stereo and play Beatles songs. She would turn off half of the overhead lights, we would sit there in the semi darkened classroom and listen to Hey Jude, Yesterday, and I wanna hold your Hand. We would take our cues from her, close our eyes, and listen silently and intently, swaying softly at our desks, absorbing the music like we too loved the Beatles, and eventually: we did.

There is a new British invasion that is taking over our country. No, the Beatles haven't reunited. Twiggy is now a grandmother, and Mary Quant's mini skirt is well over 40, but The USA is being reintroduced to our cousins across "he pond" with a whole new wave of English actors on prime time TV, BBC America on cable etc... Beautiful Nigella Lawson making food sexy, with her seductive accent, and sultry pot and pan rattling. Hugh Laurie as Dr. George House, Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame, all while Lily Allen, Amy Winehouse, and the Fleet Foxes are filling our airwaves. British Interior Design is also Hot Hot Hot! English interiors are no longer, over crowded, overpatterned, chintz filled rooms, but ultra cool, hip and cutting edge design that give homage to the past. Designers like Kelly Hoppen and Afroditi Krassa are making a big splash on both sides of the Atlantic and more established British talent like Anouska Hempel have helped to create a British tsunami that started a decades ago. English icons like Burberry, have not only put their distinctive stamp on fashion, but also on home design, with a whole line of furnishings. Liberty prints scattered across cotton blouses like your mother used to wear have made a huge comeback, and can be found on everything from sofas to watering cans. Retro images of Twiggy, and the Beatles can be found on toss pillows and graphic pop art of today. Debbie Travis can be seen refurbishing homes with her unique paint treatments on the FLN network, and Absolutely Fabulous and Little Britain have become a part of the American lexicon. Everything from Britcoms to English "wellies"(rubber garden boots) have landed on our shores, with no hint of them going away anytime soon. English gardens with their riotous color are still a standard, and a classic British Chesterfield sofa still reigns supreme in many a stylish American home. Gordan Ramsey screams profanities at us to not make a meal of "shit", and we dutifully obey. Jennifer Saunders has us in tears of laughter, making us realize why she is Britain's best loved commediane. Monty Python and Benny Hill are still a go to for a quick comedy fix. English design was not only brought over on the Mayflower, but continues to flourish in this country today. So pip, pip, and cheerio, put a little British design into your bloody lives today; and God save the Queen y'all, Ta!

Why You Should Love White

I was driving faster than I should have been, always rushing. Not only do I have a lead foot, but I need constant distractions, probably harking back to my first years as a card carrying licenced driver. Now that I am rapidly (and it pains me to say this) approaching middle age, I really do not enjoy driving. As a teenager with the ink barely dry on my newly minted rite of passage (complete with picture and birth date, that I would later try to alter so I could buy alcohol), I would take the tiniest opportunity available to get behind the wheel of my mothers Chrysler New Yorker. Could I run to the store for milk? No problem. Would I be able to pick up my little sister from band practice? You betcha. Go collect the trash cans from the end of the driveway? Absolutely, as a matter of fact Ill just drive down to get them, those cans need to be back beside the garage pronto. Any excuse to show off my barely passing C minus drivers education skills. Looking back I shouldn't have been allowed to drive a shopping cart, let alone a two ton tank of a car. Regardless, off I would go to the grocery store, carefully putting on the turn signal to exit the drive, demurely accelerating to 20mph, as my mother stood at the door with a worried look on her face. As soon as I turned the corner of my street, my parental vehicle would become a Nascar worthy dragster, racing down residential avenues at twice the posted speed limit. I would round up at least six pimply faced buddies with bad 80's hair, and attitudes to match; needing an entourage of friends to help me make the best milk selection possible. We were all so cool, so bad ass, music blasting at eardrum shatter, and unattended cigarettes burning holes into the tan leather upholstery. We would cruise the town like we owned it, making pitt stops at all the local adolescent hot spots, "big pimpin'" in my moms champagne colored town car. Hours later I would drop off my pals, quickly clear the littered car of fast food wrappers and empty Marlboro red packs, (man, was I in the trouble) and frantically make my way toward home. Flying into the driveway with no concern about appearing to be a "safe driver", I slammed the car into park, and sat there a minute to compose myself. Seeing the living room drape pull back from the window, I knew I had to go face the fury of pre cell phone worried and angry parents. I get out of the car with head hanging appropriately, and I take the long shameful walk to the front porch. As my sweaty nicotine stained fingers sheepishly turned the front doorknob, I would realize I forgot the milk.
Yesterday I was driving my sporty new little (American made) SUV to a thrift store that I heard about via a friend. I saw a nun dressed in an all white habit walking up the street. Yes, a nun in full on penguin gear. Head veil (I think its called a wimple) long dress to the ankle, apron, stockings, sensible shoes, a dangling rosary, and everything completely in white. She was stunning! I was at a busy intersection, waiting for the light to change. Typical of when I'm in the car, I fidget, I fiddle with controls, I play with the radio, . My innate nervous energy takes over, as I'm always impatient to get to the destination. Usually stop lights are torturous to me. I find it impossible to sit still that long, but I was completely mesmerized by this beautiful little sliver of crisp white in a sea of colorful people, stoplights, billboards, and shops. I was so engrossed, so transfixed by this fantastic creature that I didn't even notice that the light had turned green. The car horns blaring behind me shook my out of my revere, but I wanted to linger, I wanted to emblazon this gorgeous image into my minds eye forever. As I sat there watching my lovely little cloud of pureness retreat further into the distance, it reminded me of why I love white.
1. White is versatile: it goes with everything, even more white. It enhances color, a pop of color on a white backdrop is dramatic and draws your eye directly to it, and vise versa.
2. White is calming: a room done in various shades of white, cream, ivory and alabaster mixed with plenty of textural elements is just the serene and tranquil spot we sometimes need in our hectic, hustle, bustle lives.
3. White is clean: it brings up mental images of waterfalls dropping into a frothy pools below, or of beautiful snow covered trees, or maybe even an efficient and sterile environment. I love white bathrooms for that very reason, somehow an eggplant colored toilet never computes in my brain as clean.
4. White is romantic: sheer white drapes fluttering gently at a window, white candles flickering softly, a bunch of white flowers in a cream ware pitcher, pure romance.
5. White is comfortable: crisp white linens on a bed, soft overstuffed white furniture and pillows, a fluffy white bathrobe, they all make you want to curl up with a good book or the TV remote and just relax.
The list for white is a long one, and for good reason, white is cool, literally and figuratively. The next time you go to buy sheets and bedding, think about white. Tired of those scarlet walls you loved five years ago?, try out a shade of dove, or misty white to calm you. Wrap yourself in a fuzzy white blanket, put on some mellow jazz and chill. As Martha would say; White, its a good thing!!!

It's Easy Being Green

Today was a beautiful day. A mild, sunny early spring day, just balmy enough to let you know that winter had loosened its icy grip for yet another year. I walked to my mailbox to collect my daily assortment of bills, flyers, circulars, take out menus, advertisements etc... a metal cylinder stuffed to the brim with unwanted paper. Paper white, sterile and impersonal, telling me that my checking account was overdrawn. Slick, shiny paper, long and folded like a pseudo menu printed with idyllic graphics of what I assume were to be the rolling hills of Tuscany, offering me an obscene amount of free cola if I only buy two large pizzas at a set price (extra toppings excluded of course). A thin fluttery book of paper the size of a wedding album showcasing picture perfect images of antacids, corn removers and hemorrhoid cream, all on sale; this week only. I stood there sifting through my armload of daily brow beating, wondering how many trees were sacrificed to tell me I needed get to the nearest "blah blah" ASAP to stock up on shoe laces. A dark cloud had obscured my lovely day. I thought if a tree had to die, why couldn't I have at least gotten a card from a friend to wish me happy spring, a letter from a loved one telling me they missed me, or a check from the bank saying they wanted to thank me for all my faithful years of entrusting my money with them. I was sad, I just stood there with my reem of papers; unloved, unmissed, with no compensation for my slavish loyalty to my local savings and loan. I sighed a long sad sigh, turned my back on my sad mailbox to make my sad way back to my sad existence, and as my sad eyes cast their gaze over my sad walkway; there, just beyond the first step to my door, I saw the alive, delicate green shoots of the crocus pushing its way out of the sad brown soil... and I smiled.

There are so many options today that can help us be ecofriendly or "green" without sacrificing style. Sustainable hardwood floors have become the norm, bamboo and other fast growing woods come in a large selection of hues and finishes. Beautiful fabrics are made out of hemp or soy. Carpeting ,rugs, furniture, art etc... are made from recycled plastics, and that's just the tip of the iceberg (pardon the global warming pun) I'm not saying you have to stop living your gorgeous, glamorous, rock n roll lives, just make some different choices. The next time you want to reupholster the sofa, look into natural or soy based fabrics, and forgo the synthetics. Instead of throwing out your old chest of drawers, paint it a beautiful color with no VOC (volatile organic compounds) paint, change the hardware and use it as a buffet in your dining room. It will look personal and chic, and hold all your linens, place mats, napkin rings, and that hideous cut crystal deviled egg plate your Aunt Myra gave you for Christmas. Donate your old clothing to the charity of your choice. Better yet, take your old sweaters and make throw pillows (its not that hard) There are endless things you can do that will not only show off your originality, but will help save our beautiful, wonderful planet for our kids, and their kids, and so on, and so on.......
Iam going to try to post some pics that will show you just how cool green can be, I'm not having the best of luck with the uploads, hopefully it will work. Remember, keep it green if you can!

Sometimes It Really Is All About Me

Hmmm, where to start? Well, I guess I'll start with me, not original, but it seems like a good jumping off point. I've heard of interior design blogs, looked and perused design blogs, and even have a friend or two who have written interior design blogs, but never thought I would be writing one of my own. As with many things in my life, there was a time when interior design wasn't a part of my every day vernacular. I have an art background, and I can draw a "purdy" picture, but I have found that I also know "where to put the ottoman". I think I have known where to put the ottoman for most of my life, and have always been training for a career in the home interior field without consciously knowing it. I'll start at the beginning; as a child my Mom would leave the house for whatever reasons Mothers leave for the day, probably to get a little distance from their bratty kids. Being older than my sister, I would be in charge. I would look at these times as an opportunity to turn our house into "home beautiful". After letting my younger sibling know who was the boss, we would tackle the rearrangement the living room or the dining room or maybe a bedroom, it depended on the mood I was in. We would spend laborious hours hauling furniture back and forth from one part of the room to the other, moving pictures, taking toss pillows from the living room to use on the backs of dining room chairs etc... all under my watchful eye and direction. Looking back I was quite a taskmaster, usually ending with my poor little sister Amy curled up in the fetal position under an end table fast asleep. Regardless, my masterpiece would be complete, and I would wait with just a little smug anticipation for my Mother to come home. I would drape my self across the sofa with a well rehearsed casualness, waiting for her to walk through the doorway and then faint dramatically from the sheer beauty of what I managed to create out of a few sticks of furniture and a throw rug. Needless to say, my fantasy wasn't quite the reality of what would usually be the outcome. My Mother who always had quite a flair for design herself, would walk in and sweep across the "redo" with a critical eye, tell me to get my sister out from under the table, then go to the kitchen to start dinner. Is this woman blind? Couldn't she see the mastery of my ingenious work? Note to self: find a new and much more savvy Maternal figure. Dinner would come finding me sullen and unappreciated. My Mom not known for her culinary skills, would put the charred meat, overcooked vegetables and wilted salad on the table. While we sat there scrapping the blackened and burnt skin off the chicken breast, she would tell me truthfully all the parts of the redesign that she liked, and what she thought could use some work. After dinner would find me moving the sofa from the kitchen back into the living room, (it seemed like a good idea at the time)and removing the afghan from the wall and folding it back onto the chair (I read somewhere that handicrafts made unique wall art). These minor setbacks did not squelch my appreciation of a well appointed home, and I would spend the rest of my formative years randomly honing my interior design skills. We got many magazine subscriptions at my house, amongst them were quite a selection of interior design mags: Better Homes and Gardens, Architectural Digest, Country home etc... and I would read them all from cover to cover, soaking in all the beautiful lamps, hooked rugs, mid century chairs, and art deco drawing rooms. If my Mother was missing her Southern living magazine, she knew where to find it; My room. I loved everything about it, to me it was art, and I devoured all I could of it. Life, as it seems to do, went on; and as I got older, I focused more on the fine arts, seeming to forget all about my adolescent love affair with home decoration. It wasn't until I sewed most my wild oats, and moved into my first home that my old flame home design came back into my life. As we all know, wild oat sewing is expensive, so by the time I had a place of my own, I had precious little money to bankroll my castle. I was pretty much over the "poor college kid" school of design: beach chairs in the living room, milk crates holding my clothes, a microwave missing its glass turntable, and a mishmash of plastic fast food cups, and pilfered cutlery from the local diner. Topping all this grandeur off with the dreaded Tye Dye wall hanging, hung with thumb tacks over the mattress on the bedroom floor. After taking inventory of my sad assortment of home fittings and furnishings I decided being a sophisticated adult of 22, these tawdry, pathetic items had to go. My lofty ambitions about home far outweighed my wallet. I had to come up with a plan. Being moderately intelligent and more than just a little thrifty; I set out to make a proverbial silk purse out of a sows ear. I rose with the sun to go to yard and tag sales, picking up as many treasures as $10.00 would buy, giddy with the hunt. I scoured the papers for estate sales, beating the early birds by camping out on doorsteps hours before the sale began. I was like a rock band groupie determined to get the first and best tickets to the concert. I haunted thrift stores, goodwill's and salvation army's like some hyperactive ghost searching for the holy grail of credenzas in a sea of wicker, paintings on velvet, and mismatched veneer bookshelves. I found myself sneaking out on trash nights, stealthily coasting down darkened streets stopping at curbside trash heaps, searching for anything that resembled a table, chair or lamp. I searched every nook and cranny of my family attic and my grandmothers basement. At parties or dinners at friends homes, I could usually be found in their garage, inquiring about what they were going to do with the buffet that was missing a leg. Looking back I was ruthless, and probably more than a little obnoxious. I was on a mission, and no stone was left to be unturned. After all my collecting, It was time to transform all my (ahem) gently used, vintage and lovingly discarded home goods into gold. Okay, okay, it was trash, but it was trash picked with a discerning eye, burning feverishly with what it could become. I sanded, painted, changed knobs, faux finished, framed, gutted and re stuffed, reupholstered myself into the next winter of the second year in my "new" home, and when it was done it was astonishingly, jaw dropping, eye popping, heart racing beautiful. Alright, your heart didn't really race, but it was damn good! With blistered hands and a lower back pain that wouldn't go away, I finally settled into my newly refurbished haven. Satisfied at the mark I made in my home, now it was time to go out and make my mark in the world. Sad to say it was much harder finding my "special purpose" in the career world than it was to make my home special. I became a "jack of all trades" as my Grandmother would say. I waited on tables, which I was good at, but it bored me to death. I tried my hand at teaching, some people are born to teach: I wasn't. I sold real estate, enough said. I worked at a casino, that's lofty. I managed a restaurant, can you say burn out? The list goes on and on. While casting my net into many career waters throughout the years, there was one distinct and quietly powerful constant: Design. It was subtle, almost like a whisper, in the background just patiently sitting there, waiting for me to pull it out and use it whenever necessary. It was so unconscious, and so threaded into the tapestry of who I am that I didn't even recognize that is was softly and continuously talking to me as I was crashing and banging through life, trying to find my way. In all my fumbling and tripping down my myriad of "career" paths, people would seek me out about design problems and solutions. My friends would call me ask me what color to paint their bathrooms. Neighbors would plead me to come by and tell them where to hang their art. Strangers would come into my house and ask me who my designer was. My newly married friends would invite me to dinner as a ruse to help them place their furniture. Of course I would always comply, I would turn friends, neighbors and strangers hovels into comfortable attractive homes, without really thinking much about it. To me it came as natural as breathing, and they would gobble up my advice faster than I could dish it out. They were literally starving for direction, for reassurance, for a place they could love. I never thought past that, to me it was about the same as if I asked a friend that had car knowledge to come over and show me where to pour the anti freeze. (my car expertise is a sad affair) I did this as a friend, and in a very nonchalant manner for many years. Never turning down the volume of the rest of my life to listen to what was really being said to me. It wasn't until I managed a restaurant that an epiphany was given to me. I had worked there for a few years, feeling increasingly disillusioned and feeling more and more like I had once again ended up in a career that had become stagnant, dead end and completely boring to me. In the process of working there I became friends with the owner of the restaurant, she is still my dear friend today. She knew that I had this uncanny design knack, and she herself would always come to me for design advice for the restaurant or her home. She also knew that even though I was competent as a manager, my heart was just no longer in it. Being the friend that she is, she pulled me aside and told me quite plainly, to get on with and become an interior designer. She stated that a talent left to waste away was her idea of the ultimate sin, and it was time for me to give up my "sinning" ways and follow my passion. Whoa!!! Eureka, the little light bulb lit up instantly and burned brightly right over my big thick skull. There it was, with me the whole time, right below the surface, bubbling quietly just waiting for the moment to erupt like a volcano that has been dormant too long. I felt like the blinders had been ripped from my eyes. This tiny woman speaking to me honestly and with quiet conviction, and thankfully I got it, I finally knew what my career was to be, it was already written. I have been studying for this my whole life. To me she was Santa Claus, Jesus, The Easter Bunny and Buddha all rolled into one that day. I was grasshopper snatching the pebble from her hand (you have to be of a certain age to know that reference, we all have a computer, google it) I gathered up my courage, took a leap of faith, hung out my design shingle, and here I am six years later doing what I love, doing what I am passionate about. It has been a roller coaster of a ride, but I never even thought about getting off of the ride. I've learned many things about myself on my quest of enlightenment through design. I'm not curing cancer, and I haven't found the solution for world peace, but I have learned that in my own small way, I too am changing the world. There is no price tag you can put on happiness, when you are in harmony with your environment, when your home is the place you most want to be, when you walk in the door to your own personal and unique sanctuary, that's a little piece of nirvana that brings us all closer to enlightenment. Here it is, my first blog. I hope you join me regularly, enjoy the ride with me, and let me help you "know where to put the ottoman" too.